


commodity

by hatchets



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Car Sex, Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Self-Hatred, Sexual Experimentation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-27 09:59:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10003082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hatchets/pseuds/hatchets
Summary: Steve Rogers doesn't know what he wants, but that doesn't really matter.





	

**Author's Note:**

> takes place vaguely pre tws/in the setting at the beginning

The white picket fence, the nuclear family, the 2.5 kids, he had missed that. It was a blank in his timeline that he was still trying to figure out. He had gone from the greatest generation to millennialism, ping pong paddles to iPads, and the world around him didn’t seem to think that that was an improvement. Plenty of things were still the same (or so he liked to tell himself). Surface level things. Movie theatres. Apartment buildings. Comic books. But.

But. People had changed, and the way they lived, and Steve Rogers was too polite to ask for directions. Maybe polite was the wrong word. Maybe it was cowardly.

He didn’t _need_ to figure it out. From an early age it had been obvious that Steve Rogers was not going to marry a Fay Wray. He was not going to be one of those men who climbed hand over foot, bootstrap by bootstrap, out of the Depression and into genius, and the industry of the 50s. Steve Rogers was going to work in a factory or at a mediocre trade and eventually marry a convenient, kind girl who didn’t mind the constant threat of a cough and general wan aura. What he wanted hadn’t mattered, because he had no options, which is why he hadn’t minded going to his probable death in the war. There was no tearful girl fanning a handkerchief. There was no vision of children. There were the dreams of crutches, and iron lungs, and mustard gas.

Now he had an iPad, and as far as they could tell him, he was never going to get so much as a cough again in his life.

Fay Wray was still no longer an option, of course, and Peggy was gone, and Bucky was gone, and the rest of them were gone, and the place in his heart reserved for past, present, and future loves had been stuffed deftly with cotton. He didn’t want anything else. He didn’t want any _one_ else. He was appalled at how many of them wanted him, at how the weaponry that was his body had become something desirable, and for all Nat’s teasing, he stayed away from casual dating, cohabiting, open relationships, Tinder, Okcupid, and all the innumerable odd options available to him as a newly millennial ninety-five year old.

Fantasy slipped in, guiltily.

“You're a commodity,” said Rumlow drunkenly. They were at one of many bars the STRIKE team frequented after a successful op, and as a show of good faith and teamwork Steve often joined in, drinking something tasteless and being bored as hell. Sometimes Natasha would join him on the back terrace for smokers, to chat or stand in thankful silence, but tonight she was gone. The loneliness was more oppressive than unusual.

He hadn't been paying attention. “I'm a what?”

Rumlow spun an empty beer bottle, laid flat on the table, like a top and then stopped it with one finger. “Quality goods. That, high tier merchandise. You know what I'm saying. That girl over there, you see her?”

She was tall, black-haired, bending over a pool table.

“You could take that home,” Rumlow said. “Any of them in here. But you never do.” That seemed to amuse him.

“Not my type,” said Steve politely. “Not really my scene.”

“You’res uch a waste.” Rumlow was being friendly, and he was drunk, but Steve felt a prickle between anger and acknowledgment anyway. Rumlow was draped back in his chair now, leaning with apathetic insolence. “I know you’ve got to take your time, adjust, that's cool, but hey man. Nothing with getting your dick wet.”

“You’re worse than Romanoff,” Steve said, trying to infuse some levity into the conversation.

“Yeah, hey, what’s up with that?” Rumlow leaned in, pool table girl forgotten. He waited long enough to order another drink, and waved off an invitation from the few straggling team members who were taking over the dart board. That left the two of them alone, and Rumlow free to ask, “Are you fucking her?” The emphasis was on ‘her’, a kind of marvel that someone was capable of such a feat, and the implications rankled.

“No,” said Steve shortly. He picked his bottle like he was going to take a drink, and just sat there with it next to his lips, trying to find some kind of pithy comment and failing.

Rumlow laughed. He slugged him in the shoulder with that too drunk familiarity, the kind of locker room camaraderie. Steve didn’t like that. He didn’t like the casual physical contact. He didn’t like the boys club. He’d never been included, in any decade, except in his brief years of being afoot with his men in the german forests. And this wasn’t that.

“Chill,” said Rumlow. He put up his hands: no harm, no foul. “I get it.”

“Oh, yeah?” Steve took his sip, the last of the lukewarm IPA, and Rumlow watched him.

“I’m just sayin’.” Rumlow tossed back the last of his drink, wiped his mouth, and looked at Steve over the glass as he put it back down. “It can be hard getting out there. Just let me know, you know, if you ever need a hand.”

“A hand,” repeated Steve, with only the context of a few episodes of bad TV, imagining Rumlow helping him tag more strange girls at more strange bars. “Okay, sure,” he said emptily. He was tired. How long had they been out? It felt less like blowing off steam and more like excessive self congratulation every time the team went out, and he could play .

Out of view under the table, Rumlow’s hand gripped his knee, massaged the joint with his thumb for a second, and then ran the hand up his thigh.

Steve felt a funny jerk in the base of his spine, and his back went rigid. He didn’t move. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t look at Rumlow, who he was looking at him. _Oh. That’s what he meant._

Rumlow didn’t outright grope him, just rested his hand casually on his leg, and he continued to gently rub with his thumb. “It’s late and I’m drunk,” he said. “Wanna do me a solid, and drop me at my place?”

About three minutes too late, Steve finally caught up on the implications, and opened his mouth but said nothing. The reality of the option being given left him thinking _Why not?_ in a way that was practically academic. Why couldn’t he? Shouldn’t he? Did he want to?

Rumlow was watching his tongue move thoughtfully in his mouth.

“Okay,” said Steve. “I’ll give you a ride.”

-

The drive up, Rumlow left him alone, and he had enough time to make up his mind. He didn't know what he wanted, but he wasn't obligated to figure it out. He had time. He could wait until the world stopped spinning and the internal clock in his head stopped hurting. He didn't have to. He pulled into the empty black drive with no intentions. He said, “I don’t think-”

It turned out he didn't need those intentions. Rumow grabbed the back of his head with surprising roughness, pulled him in, and put his lips and then his teeth, on Steve's neck just below his ear. Rumlow's single hot breath shot hot and cold down his spine again. Surprise froze him more than anything. Steve let Rumlow manhandle him, kissing his throat, with a single uncertain hand pressed against his chest. Was it resistance? He didn't know, he felt blank, and stupid, and he could feel Rumlow’s lips pressing their way to his collarbone. His hand was still gripped tight at the base of Steve’s neck. “You fuck guys before?” Rumlow asked, before pulling Steve's head forward and kissing his mouth. Steve had only a second to register the warmth of his lips and the wetness of his tongue, before Rumlow was kissing his neck again, big expansive grabs of tongue and teeth that were going to leave marks. His breath was ripe with bourbon.

“You ever let a guy fuck you?” Rumlow asked, his mouth pressed right against his ear. He didn’t seem to care about getting an answer. “You hard?”

Rumlow held his head in both hands and kissed him for several minutes, and Steve struggled to reconcile with his own intent, and what did he want, and he _was_ getting hard. The taste of bourbon and the scrape of stubble were strangely good. Steve felt the way he did whenever he touched himself: hot and embarrassed, trying to talk himself out of feeling good, feeling ashamed. When Rumlow abruptly stopped kissing him, Steve was panting. Rumlow licked Steve’s lips in a way that was completely lewd, slow, as his hands held his head fast, his thumbs almost pressing into his throat. Steve was completely hard.

“How you feel?” Rumlow asked, and it was too dark to see his face, but his voice was amused by Steve’s breathlessness and by the clingy hand on the front of his jacket. “You want me to suck your dick right now? You want to come upstairs and let me bust that ass?”

“I should go home,” was all that Steve could manage.

“Pull out your dick,” said Rumlow. He was breathing hard himself, but in anticipation. “You know how to jerk it, let me watch. Come on.” Rumlow dropped a hand to Steve's lap and started undoing his fly, then felt his erection. “Shit.” He gripped it. “I didn’t know you were packing that kind of heat.” Distracted, he gently squeeze, making Steve grunt. His hips lifted reflexively even as he reached down to stop it.

“I should go,” was what he said, but Rumlow took his hand, and pushed both of their hands down his pants. Rumlow wrapped Steve’s fingers around his dick, his hand around Steve’s, and began to rub. He squeezed their hands together, pressing up and down, slow but hard, jerking him with his own hand. Steve ground his teeth into his lower lip to stop himself from groaning or telling Rumlow to wait. It felt amazing. It felt so good. Wanting it was blurred with doing it was blurred with wanting to stop was blurred with an animalistic inability to _stop_ doing it.

“Like that?” suggested Rumlow. “That feel good?”

Steve pressed his head back against the headrest, closed his eyes, and tried to think. He couldn’t think. Somewhere in the back of his mind there was an excuse, a way out, some kind of virginal protest, but he couldn't find it. His head was too hot. Rumlow was kissing his neck again. Rumlow's breath was a loud and heady distraction, and he was still rubbing himself off, Rumlow’s hand just strict enough to ensure that he was doing it.

“I bet it doesn’t take much to make you come, does it?" asked Rumlow. "I bet it’s been months. I bet your body is so ready to come that I wouldn’t even have to suck it, I’d just have to breathe on your dick to make you blow your load. Do you want me to finish you off? Want me to swallow your cum?”

Steve could feel his orgasm coming, like a train on a track, and he panted, “Wait. Wait.”

Rumlow released his hand around his dick, but only to pull his pants down further, and he cupped the inside of his bare thigh. “Go ahead,” he said. He turned Steve’s head to kiss him again, and around his tongue he murmured, “Finish yourself off, come on. Go ahead. Do it.”

Hotter with embarrassment, Steve did. He jerked himself hard and fast to end it, and because it felt so good, and because he couldn’t stop. Rumlow was breathing “That’s it,” in his ear, and he was massaging the inside of Steve’s thigh with his thumb, practically rubbing the base of his dick, and he knew exactly where to press his fingers.

Every muscle in Steve's body seized up and he came so hard it almost hurt. He rode it out with clutching, grabby strokes, gasping as he came over his own thighs and the back of Rumlow’s knuckles. Slowly, shakily, he finished, his muscles losing tension one at a time, and he collapsed back against the headrest. His lower lip was busted from biting back noise. He was throbbing.

“Fuck yeah,” said Rumlow. He was almost laughing. He ran his hand over Steve’s leg, like he was soothing him. “Shit, I bet that felt good to get out of your system.” He took his mouth away from Steve’s ear, and Steve thought that may have been it, but then Rumlow bent down over his crotch.

“God,” was all Steve had time to say before Rumlow was licking the cum off of his still trembling legs. Rumlow sucked at the juncture of leg and hip, ran his tongue over the line of muscle, and then swept it all the way up his dick to the head. Steve actually whimpered as Rumlow sucked the last imaginary drops out of him.

Rumlow straightened up and wiped the back of his mouth.

Steve didn’t look at him. Humiliation was settling in. He could hear his own sounds replaying in his head, remembered with horror the desperate, clutching way he had jerked himself off in this car, in this parking lot, publicly, Rumlow whispering and sucking filthily in his ear. It was abandoned and dark but his humiliation was no less. He remembered with disbelief the confident way Rumlow had grabbed him. Like something weaker than he was. And he _had_ been. The other man’s self satisfaction was emanating from the other side of the car.

Steve pulled his pants back up. He almost said “I should go,” again, but said nothing instead.

“Thanks for the ride,” said Rumlow. His voice was completely casual. He wiped his palms on the front of his pants before reaching for the door handle, and then he got out. Steve was left sitting in silence, smelling bourbon and sweat and cum, and found himself replaying in his head what Rumlow had said to him initially at the bar.

_’You’re a commodity.’_


End file.
